


Cutting The Night Into Pieces.

by EliahvanHeaven



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Abstract, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Anal Fingering, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, Boys Kissing, Case Fic, Castiel Has a Crush on Dean Winchester, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Castiel in the Bunker, Classical Music, Confusing, Crying Misha, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Doctor Jared, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Experimental Style, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, FBI Agents Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester, Forbidden, Forehead Touching, Frottage, Gay Sex, Gentle Castiel, Gentle Kissing, Gentle Sex, Graphic Description, Grumpy Dean, Hair Brushing, Hallucinations, Illnesses, M/M, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Nurse Jensen, Parental Bobby Singer, Protective Jensen, Psychiatric Patient Misha, Psychologist Jared, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Reality Loss, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sam Ships It, Schizophrenia, Sex in the Impala, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, psychiatry AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 10:42:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12792861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliahvanHeaven/pseuds/EliahvanHeaven
Summary: Patient:Misha Collins.Assigned Psychologist:Dr. Dr. J. T. Padalecki.Clinical disease pattern:Anxiety disorder, Derealization, Identity loss, Shizophrenia.Disillusioned, absent, unresponsive, living in his own head and drowing in his own mind- there is no way for Misha to live a normal life outside these walls. But then there are also those times where he is so self- reflecting it makes it hard to believe that he has been institutionalized to a psychiatric ward at all. Maybe that´s why Jensen is getting emotionally attached.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first multi chaptered Supernatural Fanfic. I feel like I should add a little warning for readers with psychological problems (what includes me), because there are many graphic descriptions of thoughts and feelings of the main character that could maybe trigger, according to how easily you are triggered. But yeah- I am easily triggered and wrote it, so don´t worry too much^^ Story can be confusing in the beginning, but it will all be explained.
> 
> English isn´t my first language so feel free to give tips on my grammar and vocabulary use! The link in the prologue is the song that goes with the first chapter. Please listen to it, it´s worth it :) Now have fun reading!

_Can You Cut the Night into Pieces?_

_Can You Fly above the Sky?_

_Fall._

_Fall._

_Falling._

_There´s no Sound in my Head._

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OB5Qoy8JHdI](url)

\------------------------------------  
\------------------------------------  
\------------------------------------

"That must be it. "

Sam let the roadmap sink as he tried to have a look at the blurred neon lights through the foggy darkness; Soft, fuzzy rain that was pulsing against the Impala's windows in a constant, calming rhythm making it difficult to see.They were somewhere in Nevada- Castiel had lost track- and for now their drive had been a quiet, dull and sheer endless movement through curtains and curtains of heavy rain.

There was the rumbling sound of thunder somewhere far, but the lightning that followed (shouldn't it be the other way round?) enlightened the sky just above them with vibrating electricity. Castiel could feel it- their surroundings being pressed down, that uncontrolled wave of power from above making Dean shudder slightly.

And _what?_ , Sam teased, _afraid of the storm?_

Dean just huffed, smoothly following the stretched curve of the road, moving the Impala's body like it was his own. Castiel had always admired that. That simple, pure way Dean moved; muscles clenching and stretching, but never hesitating, never unsure of his movements. Just direct, strong motions that seemingly always targeted, though years of walking the earth had teached Castiel that randomness and absentmindness could be seen as commom characteristics of humankind.

They got out of the car as soon as the Impala rolled on the parking lot, sprinting the few meters to the front door of the chosen Motel of the day. _Hello_ and _Welcome Mr. Stradlin_ and _One room_ and fake credit cards and they were sitting at the small table in the dim lights of the seemingly antique lamps.

Dean was sprawled on the bed, eyelids lidded from exhaustion, voice rough as he huffed out a _Get some sleep, Sammy. We'll find out tomorrow_ ...

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow they would go for their suits and the fake bagdes and interrogate the seemingly unbreakable- they wouldn't talk. Non of the victims would talk. Scared and wide eyed and traumatized, so unwillig to cooperate the police had already given up on them.

 _No_ , Sam said and _You get some rest_ , eyes already swiping from side to side on the laptop screen.

Castiel had always enjoyed those night hours of research with Sam. He would watch and wait and sometimes read a few pages as well, but mostly he liked to bath in the feeling of calmness. Sam would be concentrated, eyebrows knitted while he read, fingers brushing through his hair from time to time. The glasses were missing though. Somehow, Castiel thought, somehow those glasses were missing.

_Are you ok, Cas?_

_Yes, Sam_.

 _You seem tensed_.

_No _, a soft inaudible sigh, _I am just calm_.__

Lazy smiles and orange light and the cheap smell of cleanser- the Winchesters tend to overromanticize a life on the road, but then even Castiel, who wasn't very common with human standarts at all, knew that it wasn't. He watched Dean's tensed face in his noisy sleep, wanting to smooth down those lines of worry, to protect what seemed to already be broken. 

\---------------  
\---------------

Lightning. Thunder. Lightning. Thunder.

Lightning...

1  
2  
3

Thunder.

The cool surface of the window is calming Misha's thoughts as he presses the flat of his hand against it, his fingers leaving the cup of hot chocolate for once.

He has been making progress, the Doctor had said, so they gave to him what he asked for- steaming hot chocolate for rainy days. It always fills his belly with warmth and makes him shudder slightly, a sweet tasting reminder that he isn't out there and freezing, that he is inside and comfortable and can listen to the regular thrumming sound of the raindrops against cold glass.

Misha smiles.

There are still things left he can enjoy. The small, insignificant details that no one ever really pays attention to.

Steps in the hallway...

Lightning.

1  
2

The steps coming closer.

3  
4

Thunder.

When the door opens Misha doesn't turn around.

"So how are we today?"

That familiar deep, rough voice filling the room with that velvety mellowness.

"I am fine. Thank you."

"Yes I bet", comes the answer while Misha can hear him start to change the bed sheets, "The Doc told me that your new medication works great for you."

"If he says so..."

"Well, aren't you feeling good?"

The concerned look on his face makes Misha smile again as he stops in his task to step beside him with real worry in his eyes.

Misha looks away from those leave green eyes almost shyly, both hands wrapped around the still warm cup once again.

"No...I feel good...there were less...uhm how is it called?"

"Hallucinations?"

"No...there is another word..."

"Well I guess that's why I am just your nurse. I have no single clue."

The soft, vibrating sound of his laugh makes Mishas belly clench in funny ways.

"So here we go...", and he hands him a small plastic cup filled with pills.

Misha eyes it warily.

"Why am I not taking it with the others?"

"Well, because the Doc wants to see you in the afternoon and since I was checking on you anyway..." - a shrug of shoulders and Misha takes it, getting all pills into his mouth at once and swallowing them dry.

"Woah, easy there, Tiger...you shouldn't swallow without liquid."

He blushes slightly when Misha nods seriously and has a sip of the water that is handed to him.

"Thank you", he says, all quiet and polite and then he sighs, his gaze wandering outside once again.

"Thunder always follows the lightning right? Does that mean every storm will start with a blizzard?"

"Oh I don't know...but...this kinda sounds logical, right?"

"Yes. It does."

He continues with the bed again.

"You seem in thoughts...feeling dizzy? Unlocated?"

"No. There are no sideeffects yet. Just tiredness."

"You are exhausted?"

"Yes. But not physically. My mind is tired..."

It is quiet for a while. He is searching for the right answer.

"I think I don't know how that feels..."

"Yes...", and Misha finally tears his gaze from the window and turns around fully, watching him shaking out the pillow, "I guess that is why I am in here and you are not..."

A concerned expression for a second again which is replaced by a quick grin right afterwards. "Well...in a way I am in here as well, right?"

"Yes...you are..."

Misha's smile is honest. Because he feels trapped- in that room, in that building, in his mind, drowning in his own thoughts- but sometimes, somedays he feels a little spark of hope that there is still a world outside this walls. He gets that feeling when he is treated like an ordinary men, seen as a human being- not as a sickness, not as a patient.

"I am so exhausted...", Misha says quietly and they share a quick look before he comes over and checks his temperature with a hand on his forehead. Cool fingers lingering there for a while before they stroke his hair back in a quick, sloppy, but conscious caress. Misha looks away again, hiding the faint smile the action painted on his lips. 

"I am not feverish..." 

"No. You aren't. Just get some rest, ok? You can skip the group talk at 3. The Doc will see you at 3:30." 

"Ok..." 

It is weakly spoken as Misha turns his attention on the sound of the rain again, humming quietly to himself, eyes lowered and sad and why is he trapped in here? 

"Have you ever seen the rain, huh? It's CCR. That song?"

A nod. A shy gaze backwards. A tenderly whispered "Yes it is". 

"Really like that song. Ya' got a good taste in music." 

"I prefer Chopin..." 

"You need a stereo in here." 

"That would be nice...can I ask you something?" 

"Sure." 

"Are you common with Ernst Mach's critique of physical concepts?" 

A short moment of hesitation. "Actually...yes...I think I stumbeled over it in my studies...he was a german scientist right?" 

"What do you think about it?" 

Misha sounds so calm, collected, making him hesitate once again before he slowly starks speaking. 

"Well...Mach's theories had an powerful impact on the development of modern science, right? If I remember it right, it's about the relationship between scientific practice and positivist philosophy...?" 

"Yes...go on..." 

"- uhm, well, positivism in the late nineteenth century was mostly about the understanding of the line dividing the realms of scientific truth and symbolic meaning. It's metaphysics. And I think his main exploration was a theory about critique of the concepts of soul and ego." 

"Yes...Mach's fundamental assumption was that all human knowledge comes from sense- data and that there is no other reality then the realm of sensations..." 

"What means that concepts of the material world are just products of repeated sensation that just change occasionally, right? I remember it!" 

Misha turns again slowly, a slight, interested blush spread on his face at the proud tone is his voice. 

"All phenomenal things are entirely accessible through the senses, also abstract concepts like the ego, not just the material world." 

"Ah right! So...there's no dualism of the self and the world, because there's no reality beneath the plain, simple surface of experiences?" - He tried to give his best scientific sounding voice, just to prove himself...in front of a patient? 

"It's all the same. It's like...he sees the world as something like a force field out of ever streaming elements, simple things like colors, smells, but also more complex things like time- and so the ego isn't seen as an isolated phenomena, but it is, or we are, just a part of the whole." 

"So according to him there is no ego? No 'self'...?" 

"No. It's all an illusion...", Misha says then, wide, blue eyes curiously taking in the other´s reaction.

He stills. Stills and thinks. It´s no conversation he should have with a patient struggling with identity loss. "Why are you asking?" 

"I don´t know...it came to my mind..." 

"You know-" 

The door burst open with a bang. 

"Breakfast! Good morning...uh heya Jensen...", Mrs. Rhodes rumbles, coming in with a tablet filled with food. 

"Heya...", Jensen answers with a smirk, tearing his regretful looking face to her while he grabs some worn clothes from the bed. 

"How are we today?", she asks, getting the tablet on the table right beside Misha. 

"I am fine." 

"Yeah, you lookin' good, sweetheart." 

Misha smiles, then eyes the food- orange juice, two slices of toast that are neatly cut into two pieces, cheese, marmelade, butter, yoghurt. 

Misha pulls it all near, then goes for a slice of toast, dipping it into the orange juice and takes a bite, what makes both his nurses huff. One in worry about his eating habits, the other in amusement. 

Misha ignores it. 

He is so tired. 

\---------------  
\---------------

They have breakfast in the car, doughnuts and cheap coffee and it's all like _C'mon try it, Cas_ and _I do not feel the desire to do that, Dean_.

So Dean eats them all, his plush lips powdered in white what he licks away harshly with his pink tongue, giving a teasing eyebrow wriggle in Castiel's direction as he caughts him watching.

 _See something you like, Cas?_ , he jokes and _Yes_ , is what Cas wants to say, but it is just silence then until Sam clears his throat, obviously occupied with searching through an article.

"The police told their families that they are giving up on the case already...I am not sure how we can make them believe that the FBI took over."

"Huh? Nah, always works. Why not this time? We´re great agents."

"We are not even agents, Dean. And...I don't know...because no one was killed? They are all home and save..."

"And mute..."

"And mute."

They were already in their suits, fake badge in Castiels hand as they rang the bell of the first victims door for today.

His wife has swollen eyes and a desperate gaze, rather unwillingly leading into the living room. They let Sam stay with her to talk, because _He's all in with the hug moments_ , while Dean and Castiel climbed up the few stairs to the victims bedroom.

He stared out of the window, standing, eyes glassy and absent, mouth open and there was clearly fear written over his features. Dean started to ask a few question, winking in front of his face. But there was no reaction- non at all.

Castiel watched his slightly shaking hands, the empty eyes, the shivering bottom lip. His whole body seemed to limp as he walked to the small bed, throwing himself on it.

No reaction.

No luck from Sam with his wife either.

"He just came home after those two days he was missing. Said no word and haven't since."

"Strange."

"Yeah..."

"Yeah...but not stranger than what we are used to. We should try to have an eye on them anyway. We can't be sure if they'll break out or something..."

Four more victims and a few pancakes at some diner later they were back at the Motel finally, all with the same result. 

No reaction.

\---------------  
\---------------

 **Patient:** Misha Collins. **Assigned Psychologist:** Dr. Dr. J. T. Padalecki. **Clinical disease pattern:** Anxiety disorder, Derealization, Identity loss, Shizophrenia.

 **22.11.2016** // **Dr. Dr. J. T. Padalecki**

 **05:30** Hallucinational period, Doesn't react when being spoken to, No signs of Anxiety, Soliloquies, Increasement of Zyprexa dose, 2,5 mg

 **08:02** Patient shows no visible signs of disillusionment, Accepts his medication, Answers when being asked, Communicates with the Nurses, Eats, Neuroeleptics seem to be effective

 **12:45** Zyprexa affects seems to ease, Symptomatic Instability, Soliloquies, Seems uneased, Refuses to talk, Absent, Unresposive, No reaction


	2. Chapter 2

_There´s Something In Your Head._

_Can't You Hear Their Voices?_

_Break._

_Break._

_Destroy._

\-------------------------  
\-------------------------  
\-------------------------

"How are you feeling right now?"

He shoves his glasses in the right position.

Misha watches his soft looking hair falling into his face from behind his ears with a slight frown.

"I am good...what is this about doctor?"

Seven years, dozens of patients and two medical diploma later and still, Dr. Padalecki thinks that this patient surprises him- so clear in some of his moments you could think he wasn't ill at all. It was fascinating, the way he was obviously able to reflect his own situation so very clearly, so aware of his surroundings and behaviour, that it sometimes felt almost ridiculous to explain it to him.

"It is a regular session..."

"But our sessions are mondays..."

"Yes. I know, but we increased your dose of neuroeleptics and switched the substance, so there's the need to check on your mental health more regularily."

"I am not mentally healthy..."

"I know that, Mr. Collins, but we are trying to find the best strategies for you to get independent again, right?"

Misha looks out of the window absently again...there is no rain today, no storm, but no sun either. Just a grey sky that looks wide and endless and ungraspable.

"I...don't think that independence will be an option for me."

Now Dr. Padalecki picks up his clipboard, the pen being twisted in his hands as he leans back in a swift movement.

"What do you mean?"

There are no clouds. A blending white horizon that is wrapping a dull, surpressed atmosphere around everything. Misha wants some fresh air. A quick look to the clock right behind Dr. Padalecki.

He catches his motion.

"Do you have anywhere to be?"

"I just wish to not miss the outside hour."

"You won't...I suggest you tell me what you meant now."

"Hm? About what?"

Another glance to the clock. Those clockwiser doesn't seem to move.

"You know I notice when you´re playing dumb, right?"

"I am not playing dumb."

The cloth in between his fingers feels rough when he lets the fingertips of his middle and index finger stroke over the material of his tunic.

"Yes you are. You said you think that independence isn't an option for you."

"Oh...that...", _Would he survive a fall out of that window?_ , "...well...it is better for me if I stay in here. I'm sick. I should."

"Mental disorders like yours aren't fully cureable, that's right, but there are strategies to live with them..."

Dr. Padalecki is talking with so much caution, watching, notating and analyzing every little reaction to his words.

"Yes...maybe..."

_What if he jumped upwards?_

"Are you sure I am not missing the outside hour?"

"Yes. Don't distract."

"I know that I won't get released"- and with that Misha turns back to face him- "I am in peace with that."

"Don't you wish to?"

Misha feels exposed under a cloudless horizon...no chance to hide, no way to calm his thoughts. He needs a place to hide.

"Why are there no clouds, doctor?"

"What?"

"No clouds...I don't like that..."

"You are distracting again...we were talking about your future. Don't you wish to live on your own again?"

"What I wish for doesn't matter..."

"Oh it does."

The soft scratching sound of the pen on paper.

"What are you writing down?"

A gentle smile from under his glasses and it looks so pityful, Misha feels an unpleasant wave of anger.

"I am afraid I can't tell you that..."

"But it is about me!"

"Why are you getting angry?"

"I'm not."

Crossed arms in front of his chest and Misha starts to rub the sole of his foot against his other leg. It calms him. Calms his uncontrolled muscles when the side effects start to kick in.

Still no clouds.

_Why are you angry?_

Time blurs.

_Are you listening Mr. Collins?_

When he stares right into the sky again it suddenly doesn't seem so endless anymore. It actually looks like he could reach it.

_Are you still with me?_

Why are people afraid of heights anyway?

_Mr. Collins!_

And why aren't they afraid of the ocean then? It is almost the same...you won't fall but you can sink and sink and sink...

_Focus on me._

\------------  
\------------

 

"Hey Cas! Focus on that damn map!"

Castiel quickly picked it up again, as he had been watching the sky instead, trying to make out where they were.

"My apologies, Dean."

Dean just huffs.

"You're probably not even reading it right."

"I do not understand the reason why I can't just fly us there."

"Because", - and he makes a point by softly hitting the side of the wheel with the palm of his right hand-, "You have to know how to read a map, Cas. We're kickin' it oldschool, ya' hear me?"

A soft tilt of Castiel's head, but he continues with the map anyway, following a particular long road with the tip of his index finger.

"Being human seems complicated..."

"Yeah...tell me about it...“

Dean sounded tired. Like they has been on the road for hours. Castiel watched his feautures from the side, suddenly feeling the weird urge to follow the line of his nose instead of the road on that crumpy piece of thick paper. A straight, strong line, softly sprenkled with freckles.

Dean gave him a confused gaze.

"What? There's something in my face?"

And with Sam by their side it would all have been _No_ and _Of course not, Dean_ , but now, alone with Dean on the road under a cloudless sky it was different and Castiel didn't even hesitate as he answered a lowly spoken _No, Dean. You are just beautiful._

Dean blushed. Of course he did. Furiously.

"What the fuck has gotten' into you?!"

"Nothing."

And _Nothing_ was what followed with Dean not saying any more word then, just focusing on the road with his ears in a prominent blush, until he was saved by the loud ringing of his phone.

"Yeah?"

Castiel could make out Sam's voice on the other line, but couldn't understand what he was saying.

"No...we're almost there though...Cas had some problems reading the map..." - a small, teasing smirk - "...hm...tell me about it...I don't think so...yeah...yes...alright...dammit that sucks...alright."

Castiel had always wondered why they never said goodbye to each other on the phone. He had asked Sam once. _Well...I don't even know...maybe...maybe because the spoken wish to see each other again implies that there may be no reunion...?_ , had been the answer.  
And _Yes_ , Castiel had thought, _That may be it._

"Sam got through to that one kid..."

"Did he talk?"

"He wrote..."

"What did he write?"

" _The voice of God._ "

"What does that mean?"

"The hell do I know? Ain't that your kind of buisness?"

"I...am...not sure..."

Dean sighs so loud it is almost a huff again, his seemingly cold fingers ( _but it is warm in the car_ ...) grabbing for the wheel hard.

"Lets just try and find that store, 'kay?"

"I doubt that this will help, Dean."

"Yeah...but we gotta' start somewhere, right? Sam says it's the place the first victim was last seen. Won't hurt to check it out."

"What kind of store is it?"

"Fishing supplies...so let's hope we're going for the big fish, huh..."

Dean chuckles.

\----------  
\----------

"Hey..."

A soft touch of cool fingers on Misha´s forehead, checking his temperature again.

He shifts weakly...

The momentary _where am I?_ quickly slips into tired resignation.

"Do you hear me?"

_Yeah..._

"Hh..."

"It's ok. Don't talk. It's enough that you're concious."

When Misha lazily opens his heavy eyes he watches Jensen getting more pills into the small plastic cup.

"Are you recognizing me?"

"Y-yes..."

"Good. That's good."

"Did I pass out again?"

"The doc calls it disillusional period..."

"I know..."

In full control of his voice again now, Misha gets aware of his burning throat and unpleasantly clenching stomach as he stretches slightly, eyes drifting to the ceiling.

"How are you feeling? Exhausted again?"

"Yes..."

"No wonder",- he stands up to get a bottle of water and prepares half of a small glass-, "you puked a lot."

"Oh..."  
But Jensen just grins as he hands him the pills.

"Don't worry. I washed you up. Doc said the new dose could trigger the side effects."

"Yes. What is this?"

"Huh? Oh just sleeping pills..."

Misha sits up slowly, both hands flat on the bed beside him. He doesn't want to sleep...

"Do I have to?"

"Yes. You need the rest."

"I hate sleeping."

"Why?"

"It steals the few hours I'm aware of myself..."

Jensen swallows, stops in his tracks as his eyes are locking with Misha's pleading ones.

Then a quick upstretch of his spine, his face all professionell again and the quiet _Take them._

Misha does. Like always.

Then falls back to the bed.

"The doc told me that you think you can't be cured..."

"Isn't he supposed to not talk about his patients?"

"Well, I am in more regular contact with you than he is...I should know."

Misha doesn't answer, but just waits for the pills to kick in. The blanket above him feels too heavy, too thick, but there are shudders anyway- he has always been afraid of those moments when you loose control over your body before falling asleep.

"I wish I wouldn't have to sleep..."

"Sleep is very important..."

"I wish I wouldn't need it..."

Jensen sits on the side of the bed now, grabbing for the clipboard on the small table to make a few notes about the given medication. He doesn't look up as he speaks.

"Why do you think you can't be cured...?"  
Misha seems to fall deeper into the cushions, his head rolling back unconsciously as his whole body starts to get heavier and heavier. _He doesn't want to sleep..._

"I am sick. I should stay here."

"You're struggling with mental health issues. With the right meds and strategies you can be able to live a normal life..."

_No..._

"...No..."

Everything starts to float.

"No...no no no..."

"Hey...calm down...it's ok..."

"I c-can't be cured...I'll stay here...I can't live on my own...t-there's nothing for me...out...there...I don't wanna sleep...don't let me sleep..."

Misha's head rolls to the side as he tries to catch his gaze, looking at him from mostly lidded eyes, while his body is loosing any shape. All sounds quietly fading out...

_It's ok...don't be afraid...are you afraid...?_

"Yes...please...don't leave me alone..."

_No...no I won't...I'm here...I'm here..._

A hand stroking his hair back and he relaxes into the gentle touch.

Everythings melts into dark colors and fuzzy sounds, unconsciousness clawing for Misha's thoughts with rude, harsh pulls, covered under the sweet, sweet promise of tenderness.

Jensen's hand on his forehead is the only thing he can still feel.

_Shhh...it's ok...just sleep..._

_Shhh..._

"I.......c-can't....can't...be.........cured....."

Jensen's warm voice is still there. Answering. Never leaving.

_No...you will...ok? It's ok..._

It's when Misha is sure that he is already dreaming that there's Jensen's quiet, whispered, saddened voice...

_You don´t think you deserve to be saved._

\----------  
\----------

Jensen leaves the room in a hurry, rubbing his face with a hand harshly as he walks down the corridor to their office.

He needs to do a few reports still and being on nightshift always offers a great opportunity to do so. At least when he isn't all absent...

Kim is sitting on her small desk as he enters and _Hey_ she smiles, briefly looking up.

"Hey..."

"Didn't expect you here today, sugar."

"Yeah, me neither. I had to switch my shift."

"Hm...", and then she leans back, watching him intensly, her work seemingly forgotten for the second as she starts biting on her pencil.

"What is it?", he rumbles while he sits on the opppsite of her, fumbling for the papers, because _damn_ ... she looks like she's about to use her mom-voice again.

"You know you're getting emotionally attached?"

"I'm what?"

"I know you just did the nightly visit for Misha..."

A confused little eyebrow knitting.

"Yeah? And? He needed to get his meds."

"Yes...I know...", and her voice carries a motherly gentleness, that instantly has Jensen looking away and staring at the desk.

"I don't get what you mean..."

"So...is he better again...?"

Jensen clears his throat.

"Yeah...stopped the puking, recognized me...took his pills....reluctant, but he did..."

She sighs, leaning back even further. "What is it then? You seem bothered...and don't you deny it now!"  
She really makes him feel like a child again so very often, but he swallows the upcoming stubborness quickly.

"He...he said that he doesn't want to sleep...because it steals time in which he is himself..."

"And...?"

Encouragingly spoken.

"Well...he was afraid of falling asleep again...begged me to not let him...to not leave..."

"Did you stay?"

Jensen clears his throat again with a slight blush creeping up his throat.

"Uhm...yes...I...did."

"Ok...so he is asleep now?"

"Yes he is..."

"Why are you still worried then?"

"Cause'...duh...he seems so...clear sometimes and then...then he's totally gone again...I think he's sure that he isn't worth the afford we put in his cure. Says he doesn't want to get released, because there is nothing out there for him, that he can't be cured...it kinda...kinda makes me sad..."

One of the room alerts blinks up, together with the raised voice of one of the patients screaming.

When she stands up and ruffles his hair while walking out, Jensen doesn't even try to move away.

"That's what I mean...you shouldn't be affected by the patient's emotional state..."

\----------------------  
\----------------------

 **Patient:** Misha Collins. **Assigned Psychologist:** Dr. Dr. J. T. Padalecki. **Clinical disease pattern:** Anxiety disorder, Derealization, Identity loss, Shizophrenia.  
**29.11.2016 // Dr. Dr. J. T. Padalecki**

 **15:30** Regular session, Reluctant with answers, Seems to be distracted, Flat Affect, The patient seems uneasy of talking about his cure, Seems sure that he can´t be cured, Avoids answers/ Gets Angry

 **15:48** Gets absent, Keeps to stare out of the window, Unresponsive, Drifts into visual and tactile hallucinations, Soliloquies, Zyprexa 2,5 mg, Additional 25mg Clozapine (FazaClo)

 **16:40** Side effect increasement, Nausea, Vomitting, High Blood Pressure, Doesn´t react, Seemingly no self- awareness

\-------------

 **Patient:** Misha Collins. **Assigned Psychologist:** Dr. Dr. J. T. Padalecki. **Clinical disease pattern:** Anxiety disorder, Derealization, Identity loss, Shizophrenia.  
**29.11.2016 // Jensen Ross Ackles**

 **23:28** Responsive. Temperature check with positive results. Reluctant to Take his pills. Says that he doesn´t want to sleep. Gets Anxious. 10mg Nitrazepam.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the reads and Kudos! It means very much to me that people like my weird little story here. x3 I needed a while to upload this time, cause´I was sick. Next one will be there on time again! Aaaand I promise some fluff/smut very damn soon, I know you are probably all waiting for it (and so am I ^^) :D

_They Are All Watching You._

 

_They Hear You._

 

_Sense You._

 

_Stay Awake._

 

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The guy behind the desk was exhaustingly like expected. Corpulent, middle aged, grey, greasy hair and a cheap, worn grin.

_What can I do for you?_

He warily eyed their dark suits while Castiel shuddered over his unpleasant voice that reminded him instantly of dirty, used oil.

_FBI, Agent Adler and Hudson._

Dean quickly snapped his badge, his face hard and full of acted, unrealeased anger. It was working though.

_Is this about the robbery at Danny's?_ , the guy huffed huskily, visibly intimidated by Dean's hard stare. Dean ignored him, nodding his chin in Castiel's direction who outflinged the photograph Dean had given him before and slowly shoved it over the desk and in front of their respondent without breaking eye contact with him. Castiel saw the slight switch of Dean's lips from the corner of his mouth before his dry, cold voice grunted out a _Have you seen this woman recently?_ \- A quick glance to the small label at his shirt- _...Mr. David?_

He looked up a little too quickly at the mentioning of his name, before his thick fingers grabbed for the picture to nervously study it, almost comically knitting his brows as if to show that he was really looking and thinking hard.

"I am not sure..."

"Think harder then. She was here a few weeks ago. And I honestly don´t think that you got a huge client base..."

He looked up then, still with knitted brows. "Well yes...could be..."

Dean growled softly from the back of his throat.

"Yes...yes...I think she was here. But she didn't ask or buy anything. Just looked around...people tend to do that these days...you know...fishing ain't exactly popular. Those kids nowadays-"

"Did she talk?", Castiel interrupted harshly, making him jerk in sudden surprise with Castiel speaking up for the first time, gravelly voice all rough- edged.

"Uhm...w-what?"

"Did she talk to you?"

"I...well...now that you mention it, I think...no...she actually didn't say a word."

"Did you notice anything else?"

"No..."

"Something about her eyes maybe? Cold spots? Flickering lights?"

"What?!"

"Just answer the question."

"No...nothing like that..."

 Dean threw Castiel a glance, before stuffing the picture back into his pocket.

"Thank you. We may consult you again."

 

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Mrs. Rhodes loves her job.

It´s a hard job, yes.

Emotionally, subliminally.

You may come home sometimes with that disturbing, profound feeling of concern and dejection, unable to blank out what you saw and felt. You need to be strong and optimistic, rough and even cold sometimes. Cold, because you can´t be there for all of them all of the time. Because independent living isn´t an option for everyone, or even something they wish for.

Some could have the assumption that it´s hard to deal with patients with mental illnesses, that they are unruly, rude and totally not under control- but in fact most of them are vulnerable, lonely and in need of affection.

So it´s the knowledge that you are helping. Giving hope. Sometimes even cure.

Not all of them though. Some are so deeply sick that the only thing you can do is try and let them have at least the most comfortable life possible.

Then the murderers. Rapists. Pedophile. It may be hard sometimes to treat them like a human being, like they deserve to be helped when you are almost sure that they don't.

Then there are those that greet you nicely every day. Talk to you. Thank you even. Like there is nothing wrong with them. Highly intelligent and literated and maybe you will find yourself starting to appreciate them more than most people you meet in daily life.

For her they are the worst. Because you sometimes forget to understand why they are in here. They will make you leave your role as their caretaker if you aren't careful.

But careful she is.

Always.

"Hey..."

A soft nudge against the patient's shoulder.

He doesn't react.

"Hey...Misha...it's time for your pills..."

She turns his head upwards, lifting his chin and shaking softly. He's on lorazepam.

When he slowly opens his eyes they are glassy, onfocused. He isn't even seeing her, doesn't even resist when she pulls him up a little in a sitting position and gently opens his mouth to place the pills on his tongue and forces him to have a sip of water to get them down. He isn't concious when he swallows, just mumbling quietly. It's hard to tell if he is drugged or disillusional with his blue eyes all reddened and half closed, seemingly staring into nothingness.

"Misha...do you hear me?"

Nothing.

"Misha..."

 

_Misha..._

 

 

_Misha..._

 

 

 

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"Cas..."

"Yes?"

They were back in the Impala now, quietly driving with the windows opened, the warmed up air hitting Castiels face in an almost gentle caress. It was drying his throat, making him swallow hard and involuntarily in a sudden human reflex of his vessel.

"Ya' did good in there."

The words were running down Castiel's mind like hot, pouring honey, making his belly twitch and curling his plush lips into a small smile. _Did I?_

"Yes. You did, buddy."

"Was he...suspicious?"

Dean barked out a rough laugh, his left hand loosely wrapped around the wheel, while the other was tightly holding his cigarette.

Puff.

Breath.

Puff.

Breath.

"No. Fuckin' wuss of a man, but he just got scared."

"Yes he did..."

"Well...at least we know now that it was probably no demonic possesion and I guess also no ghost possesion...what´s very damn rare anyway huh...what's interesting though is that she seemingly stopped talking already then..."

"Maybe she just had nothing to say?"

"Ha...no...human's tend to great each other, ya' know? Even you do that..."

Another smile from Castiel.

"Hello Dean..."

Castiel watched Dean's bemused little smirk and the faint blush all around the sharp line of his nose as he guided the cigarette back in between his rosy-soft lips and sucked softly. The way he inhaled deeply, cigarette catching on the wet inside of his bottom lip was mesmerizing.

Dean's head falling backwards, fingers tightening around the wheel and the smoke was smoothly leaving his mouth, dancing in puffy clouds around his head before they vanished into moving air and _Hello Dean_ again...quietly this time. Spoken in open mouthed awe.

"Hello...uhm...Cas..."

The blush was increasing, painting Dean's face in a warm- red color that was spreading slightly on his throat. Castiel was so hypnotised that when his phone rang, he had it out and at his ear without even looking away from Dean.

_Cas?_

"Hello Jody..."

_Hey! I tried to reach you all the time. Are Dean and Sam with you?_

"Dean is."

_Are you ok?_

_"Yes we are."_

Dean gave Castiel a quick quiestioning movement with his chin in a w _ho's there?_ way, but Castiel just squirmed with the unpleasant feeling of having to swallow again coming out of nowhere.He almost coughed.

_Can you come over? I may have some information for your current case. I talked to Bobby recently._

"It's Jody. She wants us to visit her for the case."

Dean immediately grinned a warm smile. "Tell her we'll be there!"

"We'll be there."

_Great. That's great. See you guys later then._

"Yes-", the _goodbye_ got stuck in his throat.

 

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The outside hour was always Misha's favourite part of the day. 

It doesn't feel like freedom. It isn't even about the fresh air or differing environment. But it's about having a second to smile for himself without someone looking. Without someone watching or judging or trying to encourage the sudden, fading moment of happiness.

Misha will walk for a while, walk and walk until he is face to face with the fence and there is no one but him. The guards are watching yes. They always do. But he will turn his back to them so they can't watch his face.

Then, Misha smiles.

Sometimes for just a few seconds, sometimes for minutes. Like he does now.

The soft stretch of his mouth feels strange in the beginning, before it gets through to his heart. He kind of forces his face first- then his mind will follow. Sometimes it feels like betraying his own body- to smile, altough there is no real reason to. But maybe he doesn't need a reason.

It's when the soft scratching sound of a wheelchair gets his attention that he relaxes his cheeks again, letting the wide smirk fade into his usual, nearly emotionless mask of resignation.

"What's up there, sweety? Smiling at the fence again? That's too cute, ya' know?"

Now he is smiling again, but not for himself. When he turns, she smiles right back to him, shoving a strand of dirty blonde hair out of her face, her delicately rounded cheeks slightly reddened from the cold.

"Rachel...when you close your eyes, do you sometimes see colors? Little, bright, dancing dots...", Misha muses, pressing a hand to his ribcage as if trying to hold his guts inside.

"Well...yes...I guess so..."

"Hmm...because I don't dare closing them right now."

His eyelids are on halfmast as he scratches along his spine with two fingers, trying to relieve an itch that isn't even physical. She watches him for a long while, wordlessly, then sighs a long, sad sound of disappointment or grief or both.

"They got you on drugs..."

"Hmm...?"

"You know it, Mish. You're totally not yourself. You're high. And I hate that."

He turns away again, resisting the urge to nod or give any other sign of agreement, because until now he hasn't even realised. It's hard to notice sometimes.

"How can I notice that I am on drugs when I feel like myself?"

She comes near slowly, leaning her head against his hip and sighing again, the soft pressure of her warm face against cloth covered skin calming Misha in a way.

"The answer to that is very sad, my friend..."

"Yes I know..."

"But. We are the weird right? We're crazy..."

Misha laughs a huffed out, small sound. _You are..._

And she rams his nails into his thigh in a playful, punishing manner while laughing as well.

"Shut up, idiot. I like ya' better when ya' do that..." 

"Sometimes I got the feeling that you are the only one..."

"Liking you?"

"Yes...liking me..."

"Nah...Mr. Universe adores you..."

"Who's that?"

A dreamy, upwards gaze over grey stone and up into blueish- white clouds, filled with cold, icy promises of snow that make him shiver.

"JJ Jensen, baby..."

"Hm."

Misha's gaze shyly drifts downwards again with the sudden, cramping movement of his stomach- for a second he thinks he's going to throw up again, but then it all calms into warm, fuzzy body movements. Except he isn't moving.

"No. He doesn't."

"He shouldn't. That's what it's all about, boy. I can feel his stare on me since I decided to honor you with my presence. He doesn't like it when I touch you."

"The doc told you not to encourage the patient's hallucinations, right? You've been warned to not trigger believing in things they wish but never experience..."

"Well...ya' hear a lot, hm?"

"I am mostly never clear headed. I can't get new sensations. Just think about what is already in my head. I think that's why I don't have a good grasp of myself...of that _me_ in _my_ self..."

Now she is hugging his middle tightly, face against his belly while her fingers are slightly clenching around the cloth of his sweatshirt. "Dr. Mach again...?"

"Well...it's less about the _again_ and more about the _always_... it's a general way of understanging the concept of life itself."

"You're way too intelligent to be in here, sugar."

He smiles down at her. "And you are abusing all those nicknames again..."

"You like it..."

"I certainly do."

The rest is a mixture of icy wind, silent smiles and that quiet feeling of being understood, before it all fuzzes out into half-lucid images of walking, swallowing, waiting.

Falling.

Lay down and slip control.

 

Being awake but motionless.

 

Powerless.

 

Stuck.

 

He can't even smile in his head.

 

Because they are all watching.

 

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**Patient:** Misha Collins. **Assigned Psychologist:** Dr. Dr. J. T. Padalecki. **Clinical disease pattern:** Anxiety disorder, Derealization, Identity loss, Shizophrenia.

**05.12.2016** // **Kim Rhodes  
**

**12:30** Patient is asleep /Tavor 1,0 mg

**16:45** Doens´t answer / Still asleep / Medicamentation given: 10mg Nitrazepam, Zyprexa 2,5 mg / Onfocused / Keeps on talking to himself, repeated mentioning of the same names / High Temperature

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**Patient:** Misha Collins. **Assigned Psychologist:** Dr. Dr. J. T. Padalecki. **Clinical disease pattern:** Anxiety disorder, Derealization, Identity loss, Shizophrenia.

**05.12.2016** // **Rob Benedict  
**

**18:30** Behaves unobstrusive. Seemingly positive contact with Rachel Miner.

 

 

 

 


End file.
